Junebug • TWD

7. A Chance.

I'm sitting in the passenger seat of my dad's old truck, and he's gripping the steering wheel very hard 'cause he thinks this is a stupid idea. Everyone- well, Rick- decided that we'd all go to the CDC to try and save Jim. Dad says it's stupid, 'cause if the CDC had a cure, they would've used it already. Shane still wants to go to Fort Benning. My dad doesn't wanna agree with Shane, 'cause he still hates him, but he also wants to go to Fort Benning. 

It ain't like my dad to be going along with the rest of the group like this. I thought for sure that he'd put me in the truck and start driving to wherever he wanted to go, like the Morales family did. But he didn't. He put me in the truck and started following along with every other vehicle, heading to the CDC. I don't know what's making him go along with them. Maybe he thinks we're better off in a group. I'm not sure.

I've got my head leaning up against the window and I'm trying to find pictures in the clouds, but all I keep seeing are the dead people. I'm trying not to. I'm trying to see all the good things instead, but I keep thinking about Amy and Jim. I think Jim's getting worse. I sorta wish I was in the RV with him, 'cause then maybe I could cheer him up, but no way my dad would let me ride in the RV with an infected person. 

We've been riding in the cars for a little while now. It feels like it's been forever, though, because sitting in the car with my dad is really, really boring. Lori gave me a workbook to do in the car, and I thought it'd be stuff like word searches or connect the dots, but it's math instead. I don't even know how to do most of it. I've always been bad at math, no matter how hard I try. 

I'm trying to do the workbook now, but it's asking me questions that I can only do when Carl's sitting there helping me and telling me what to do. He's way better at math than I am. 

"Dad," I say, hoping he'll be better at math than I am. "What's 63 times eight?"

Dad scoffs, but it ain't a laugh scoff; it's an annoyed scoff. "You think I know 63 times eight of the top a' my head?"

"Well, how do I do it?" I ask. 

"I can't show you when I'm drivin', June," Dad says. He's trying not to be irritated with me. I can tell. I'm irritated with me, too. I wish I was better at math. "Didn't you learn this in school?"

"They taught us, but I still don't get it," I say, digging the tip of my pencil into the paper until it leaves a dent. I wanna scribble all over this stupid paper. Everyone else knows how to do it except for me, apparently. Ain't fair. "How long 'til we get there?" I complain. 

"I don't know, June. I'm just followin' them," Dad tells me. I'm irritating him more by asking questions, so I just drop my workbook onto the floor and keep looking out the window. 

Only a minute later, Dale starts honking on the RV horn, which means everybody stop! As Dad's pressing on the brakes, I move to sit on my knees and poke my head out the window, looking up ahead, past the few cars ahead of us. I can see smoke coming out from the front of the RV.

"You see what's goin' on?" Dad asks me, pulling the keys outta the ignition.

"RV's smokin'," I tell him, squinting my eyes to block the sun. 

"Damn," Dad swears, opening up his door and getting out. I open up my door, too, and I jump down from my seat. There are no more dead bodies in the back of the truck now, by the way. Just Merle's motorcycle. 

Anyway, I grab my workbook and tuck it under my arm before slamming the creaky door shut and following my dad over to the RV. I'm gonna ask Carl to help with the math.

"I told you we'd never get far on that hose," Dale's telling Rick as me and my dad make our way over. Rick puts on his sheriff's hat, which kinda looks more like a cowboy hat to me. "I needed the one from the cube van," Dale says, shaking his head. The cube van disappeared, apparently. Dad said some son of a bitch stole it, probably Merle. I bet Merle stole it, too. He'd steal a cube van. That's a very Merle thing to do.